Richard Castle: Book One
by meridian-rose
Summary: Ficlets taking place pre or during first season
1. Civilian, Consultant, Partner, Friend

Civilian, Consultant, Partner, Friend

**Prompt**:For the castleland bigbangalt, theme season one, prompt# 008. Dread

**Summary**:Beckett finds Castle unbearable at times but as she reflects on their relationship she finds her feelings are shifting towards him. A few days later she's panicked when she arrives at his apartment to find an ambulance outside. Fearing the worst, she again considers just how involved she is with Castle and his family.

set early first season. Non-graphic mentions of death and dying (non-canon characters).

* * *

Beckett changed the radio station as she got close to Castle's building. Being his inspiration for Nikki Heat meant she was under his microscope and everything from how she took her coffee to what music she listened to was a source of fascination to him. Which wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the mocking – no, that was too strong a word. Teasing might be closer to the truth.

Anyway, point was, if he heard her choice of music on the drive over here he'd start making inane comments – their sting tempered by that grin that said he was joking. That smile that no doubt had scores of women falling for his charms. Mostly it made her want to punch him in the face – though (but she'd never admit it) this might have been because of the glimmer of attraction it sparked deep inside her and her anger at herself for feeling it. She was not about to fall for Richard Castle. Oh, no. Not in her game plan – not even her sport.

Of course she didn't have to _see _him to have him attempt to use his seductive charm on her. He'd called her last night and cheerfully told her how he was looking forward to her picking him up the next morning. Like something from one of those cheesy books on assertiveness; he hadn't asked, he'd told, and he'd did it with such charm that by the time she realised he was coercing her it would have seemed rude to say no.

He didn't need to do that, Beckett thought. He didn't need to manipulate her. She'd agreed to let him shadow her – not that she'd had much choice in the matter – and she'd follow through on it.

Maybe he didn't even realise he was doing it. He'd been wearing the mask of Successful Author/Playboy for so long he couldn't take it off. Yes, his default setting was "flirt" and he couldn't stop himself. She should feel sorry for him. Yes, that could work. Then she could pity him. Poor, pitiful, Richard Castle. Two divorces behind him because no woman could truly love him.

Beckett parked up and waited, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. She was surprised he wasn't already downstairs waiting for her, eager as a kid at Christmas. The delight he took in new things, new experiences, was, she had to admit, a little endearing. She pretended it was tiresome because jaded looked better on a homicide detective than inappropriate glee over a tragedy, but the day she couldn't find any satisfaction in her job was the day she quit.

The doorman, Eduardo, nodded to her in acknowledgement. Beckett nodded back. The man had met her once, but he apparently recognised her. Had Castle been downstairs he'd probably be talking sports or something with the man. He did have a way with people. She thought that it was because of his work, that writing demanded a fascination with how people thought and spoke. On the other hand, even if he'd taken a rather more conventional career path, Beckett was certain that Castle would be the guy everyone knew. The guy who organised the parties, and told the best jokes, and made newcomers welcome. The guy that took the big risks and shared the glory when they paid off and took responsibility when they didn't. The one who mocked but never belittled, because he was many things but malicious wasn't one of them. The one you could go to at any time and ask him for help and if it were in his power to do so, he would, without hesitation or reservation.

Pitying Richard Castle was harder than she thought. He was just irrepressible, extroverted, creative. It ran in the family, given his mother's artistic bent. She couldn't fault him for being who he was. If the women in his life couldn't accept his crazy sense of humour or his childlike fascination with the world it was their problem.

And thinking of Martha, Broadway diva, made Beckett think of Alexis. Richard adored her, doted on her, worried about her. It was hard to think badly of him when she thought about how he'd willingly sacrifice anything for his daughter.

She was startled by a knock on the window. Castle beamed at her through the glass and motioned to the door. Right, she'd left the doors locked. She got the door open and he climbed in.

"Morning," he said, and began fiddling with the radio to find something to his liking. "Sorry, I was looking over Alexis's homework. She actually used a word I'd never heard of so I had to look it up to be sure it was correct. It was very embarrassing."

Self-deprecating, Beckett thought, adding it to the list of things that made Castle more bearable than unbearable.

"Was the word 'modest'?" she quipped.

"Ha," Castle returned, putting on his seatbelt. "So, what were you thinking about? You were miles away."

Beckett shrugged as she checked her rear-view mirror. "The case," she lied easily.

* * *

Beckett bit back a curse as she was forced to stop at yet another red light. Somehow she'd managed to agree to pick Castle up. Again. She wanted to get to the station and finish up the paperwork on the case they'd just solved, or maybe get the heads up on a new case. She wanted coffee; she'd let hers go cold this morning while hurrying to get ready – hurrying because she was picking up Castle. She wanted many things but today just wasn't her day.

Beckett started the car again as the light turned green. She was maybe four minutes late but she was fairly certain Castle would make some quip about how the police were never on time, or tell her she should have used the sirens, or –

She'd been glancing ahead hoping against hope for a parking space being free outside the building. There wasn't, but this was because a squad car and an ambulance, the latter with its rear doors open and lights blinking atop it, were taking up most of the frontage.

Beckett felt a cold weight in her stomach. She double-parked and jumped out of the car, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. She pulled her badge from her pocket in one smooth movement as she strode towards the police officer who was in attendance – he was doing it be leaning casually against his vehicle which was doing nothing to improve her mood.

"Detective Beckett," she bellowed. "What's going on?"

The officer straightened up, startled. "Um, I'm not sure, ma'am. We got told to provide support for the EMTs. Not supposed to be any danger; my partner went up with them and I'm making sure no-one scores drugs from the ambulance. Or, you know, takes the whole thing."

No danger currently didn't mean there hadn't been a crime.

"What apartment? What floor?" she demanded. It couldn't be Castle, couldn't be, mustn't be. She shouldn't have stopped for the red light, she should have hurried more. And her heart sank when he pointed.

"One of the penthouses." By the time the words were out of his mouth, Beckett was already halfway to the doors.

Beckett headed inside, flashing her badge perfunctorily at anyone who even looked at her. She ignored the elevator and dashed for the stairwell. Three floors up she was wishing she'd worn flats or wondering if she needed to do some step aerobics because stairs were just so much more difficult than running on a flat surface. Or maybe it was because she was panicking that she was finding it so difficult, which was ridiculous, because this was probably nothing, right?

Still, all the while she was climbing the stairs she was dreading what she might find. This building was supposed to be safe, secure. But it didn't mean crimes didn't happen. And Castle had a tendency to get himself in trouble. Maybe he'd invited someone home who he shouldn't have, some shady character who had information about crimes that Castle wanted for his damn novel.

No, she thought. Castle would never risk Alexis's life like that. He always met contacts outside of his apartment. Scratch that idea then. An accident? He was careless enough to do himself an injury, playing Laser Tag inside, for example. Or maybe just slipped in the bathtub or cut himself with a knife – because if anyone could turn a simple mishap while making a sandwich into a major drama by nicking an artery, it would be Castle.

Great, his sense of the dramatic was rubbing off on her. She loved his novels, but she'd always kept a sense of perspective between his fiction and her reality. And now she was imagining arterial spray all over his kitchen just because there was an ambulance parked outside his building.

She should phone him. Why hadn't she thought of that? Because she'd panicked, that's why. Again, something she never did. Or had she not phoned because she was afraid that he wouldn't pick up, that he was unable to answer the phone, injured or worse…or that a tearful Alexis would answer instead.

Alexis; God, what if it wasn't Castle, what if it was Alexis? Alexis had to be okay. Beckett had a soft spot for the teenager. She was a smart, beautiful, sensitive, responsible girl who was turning into an incredible young woman. That anything could happen to her was unthinkable. And then there was Martha. What if something had happened to Martha? She wasn't getting any younger as the saying went.

Beckett had once seen a man die at the precinct from a heart attack. She'd watched the paramedics work unsuccessfully to try to revive him, and it had been an odd experience. She usually saw dead bodies, not dying ones. It had disturbed her more than she would have expected. And hell, Castle didn't take the best care of himself...

Beckett finally reached the floor and threw open the door. Panting a little, feeling tiny pools of sweat gathering where her blouse fit tightest, she flicked back a stray lock of hair. The paramedics were wheeling a gurney towards the elevator. She spun to look for Castle's apartment.

With relief she saw that Castle's front door was open and he was stood in the hallway, watching. He had his arms around Alexis, who was leaning her head on his chest. They looked upset and Beckett's relief returned to concern. Where was Martha?

"Castle!" Beckett yelled, hurrying towards him.

He looked over, a slight frown creasing his brow. "I was supposed to meet you downstairs. Sorry."

"It's okay," she reassured him. She was willing her heart to slow down. Castle was alive, safe, Alexis was alive, safe, and she wasn't climbing any more stairs for a long while. Calm, Beckett, get a grip. She reached out and touched his arm gently. "What's going on?"

"Mr Fitzcairn," Castle said, nodding towards the penthouse across from his. "His wife found him unconscious in the kitchen when she got up. Looks like a heart attack. She panicked and banged on our door. We called the paramedics. I don't know if he'll be okay – my mother's with his wife, helping her get dressed, then she's taking her to the hospital."

Relief washed over Beckett as every member of the Castle household was accounted for. Then a moment of guilt as she remembered that the Fitzcairn household was having a very bad day.

"They're nice people," Alexis said softly.

Castle kissed her hair. "Come on, sweetheart. Nothing more we can do here. And you're late for school – unless you don't want to go."

Alexis pulled away, resolute. "I'm okay. Just call the school and let them know why I'm late?"

"Come with us," Beckett said. "We'll drop you off."

"Are you sure?" Alexis's eyes lit up. "I've always sort of wanted to ride in a police car without having done anything wrong."

"Go get ready. A few more minutes won't matter now," Beckett assured her. Alexis darted inside. "She's pretty incredible," she told Castle.

"I know." Castle checked his watch. "We're making you late."

"Don't worry about it." Beckett put her hand out again. "You okay?"

"Yeah. It's just…it's a little different…"

"Dying not dead? Someone you know?"

He nodded, then the playboy mask was back in place. "Can we put the sirens on?"

"No."

Beckett swore she'd never tell him about her panicked dash. She'd always been practical and sensible, and now his damn imagination was rubbing off on her. He'd laugh at that, and suggest she'd been worried about him, and damn him that it was the truth – worse, that her concern wasn't just for a civilian, a man she was supposed to keep safe, but for a partner of sorts, for a friend. Bearable wasn't enough. She actually liked him. And she wasn't about to admit it.


	2. The Birth of Nikki Heat

The Birth of Nikki Heat

**Prompt**:For the castleland bigbangalt, theme season one, prompt artist's choice and the "100_tales prompt #035 birth

**Summary**:Set during the pilot episode, "Flowers For Your Grave"; Castle's point of view regarding his novels, dealing with writer's block, his personal interactions, and his redemption in the form of Beckett and the new character she inspires

set during ep1x01, no violence or sexual references beyond those included in the episode

* * *

"What kind of idiot kills off his best-selling character?" Gina asked, going on to berate his "short-sightedness" and "pettiness". If she weren't so damn good at her job as his publicist, he'd have severed that tie with her when the divorce papers were finalised. But she was good, and he hadn't, and she had a right to ask him about his work, about anything that was public rather than personal.

Work – the thought amused him (or would have if he wasn't currently suffering from the dreaded Writer's Block). Castle had been writing as long as he could remember, telling himself stories about the world around him. He knew the best ghost stories at camp, and when he'd exhausted the material concocted a few new ones. That these gruesome imaginings had been well received had surprised him.

Of course it was many years before he finally realised that yes, he could write, yes he was good at it, and yes, he could make a living at doing it. He'd realised the latter before the publishers had – there were a couple of big name publishing houses who were rueing the day they'd thrown Richard Castle's first manuscript into the slush pile – but once he had his mind set on something, Castle tended to pursue it. Even more so if there were obstacles in his way, such those who doubted him, or the thought that the pursuit was impossible or wrong (or both).

People thought him reckless, flighty, but he merely reserved his passions for endeavours worthy of it – though he was sometimes mistaken about the value of the prize he was pursuing. Which explained Gina. What was that Chinese curse? May you find what you are looking for. Yes, sometimes Castle got not only what he wanted, but what he deserved. And she deserved some explanation, he supposed.

"Writing Derek used to be fun, now it's like work," he told her. It was true. And writing wasn't work. Writing was fun, creative, instinctual. Writing was what happened when his fingers tapped on the keys and created pictures in a myriad combination of words, bringing the visions he saw in his mind's eye onto the page. Writing was sharing the incredible tales of love and death with his readers. It was about writing a clever story that led them through the twists and turns, giving them clues so they could try to solve the mystery for themselves, surprising them with a big finale, and throwing in some moments of passion to offset the grisly set pieces.

Writing was a game where he was the dealer who'd stacked the deck but the players didn't mind because this was about watching the drama unfold. Writing was the action that followed from the creative spark. It wasn't copy typing or drafting company reports. It was inspired, glorious, heady. Writing was not work. It was not something that should feel hard, that he should have to force himself to do.

"I wrote half-a-dozen best sellers before him, and what makes you think I'll stop now?" he said, countering her protests. Killing Storm was his way of making sure to let go of the safety net that no longer provided comfort but threatened to strangle him. To have crippled Storm would have left an small "out" should Castle's finances hit rock bottom. One miracle surgery later and Storm would be back in business. Killing Storm, making sure there was no doubt in the reader's mind that Storm was dead, left no room for take backs. Miracle cures were one thing but Storm was not a series of sci-fi novels and there'd be no cloning, time travel, or alternate dimension Storm to take the place of the dead hero.

What he would never mention to Gina was the tiny voice (that had only piped up - and, thankfully, still rarely - since Alexis was born and he had the wellbeing of someone else to consider) that said, "You can always write prequels."

Unfortunately Gina had heard – Mother! Richard thought angrily but kept his playboy mask in place – that he hadn't been writing anything. It frightened him more than he'd ever admit to anyone. He likened it to a crisis of faith, to a priest who suddenly found he no longer had a direct line to God. Whenever Richard went to his altar, his laptop, the connection to the divine spark of inspiration eluded him. The stories he told himself would not fall onto the page, plots refused to form about the discrete plot nuggets, and he hated his new main character.

"You want to know why I killed Derek? There were no more surprises. I knew exactly what was going to happen every moment of every scene," Castle explained a bit later to his daughter – who was doing homework, God knew where she got that streak of responsibility from. And now he didn't know what he was doing to do next. Storm had sucked out his genius, each paragraph of the final pages more bland than the next. Castle had sighed with relief when Storm was dead, and he was free of him. The ideas would become fresh and new, now, he had thought. That the epiphany of a new bestseller plot wasn't showing up on time was starting to grate. He'd taken the leap of faith, and now he was free-falling.

"Just once I'd like someone to come up to me and say something new," Castle complained and finally the universe answered him as a striking woman approached him. It wasn't his autograph she wanted.

"Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, we need to ask you a few questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight."

If nothing else, it would make great publicity, Castle thought. But she didn't arrest him. Not this time.

* * *

"I have a copycat. Oh my gosh, in my world that's the red badge of honour," Castle said. It was that attitude that probably added to Beckett's refusal to let him borrow copies of the crime scene photos.

What Beckett clearly wasn't aware of was how well connected Castle was. He wasn't going to let her sideline him out of the most amazing thing to happen to him ever. Crimes based on his novels – the lesser ones, but hey, you couldn't have everything – needed his input to be solved. He was the only one who truly understood all the subtle nuances behind the motives and the execution. Or so he'd tell Beckett's captain. And if that didn't work, he'd call the mayor.

* * *

Lanie appreciated his attention to detail. Beckett didn't appreciate his not listening to her and staying out of the way, nor his using his contacts to move things along. Castle was still deciding what the deal was with Ryan and Esposito. They were more laid back than Beckett but then they didn't have their gender to overcome in the traditionally male domain of policing. They seemed to be sizing him up too. Not a suspect, not a cop. Friendly but not too friendly. He could work with that.

Castle drank in the details of the precinct, the filing system, the chairs. He did it almost subconsciously, the way a soldier might scan for exits and potential dangers. Details were what made a scene real. Details could come with backstory, like a hole in the ceiling that might have been from the time a suspect grabbed a cop's gun and in the ensuing struggle the weapon went off, thankfully pointed upwards and not at anyone. He made mental notes at every location they went to.

Stealing crime scene photos finally did get him arrested – which Beckett took a lot of pleasure in. Later, he thought that was the moment he truly created Nikki Heat. Not her name, or her full story, those came later, bones and the flesh and the clothing until she was a fully fledged character. But the idea of her, the shape of who she was, the essence of a new hero.

* * *

" At one death you look for motive, at two deaths, at two you look for a connection. At three, you look for someone like Kyle. At three, you don't need motive because totally unstable serial killers don't usually have one." It seemed so obvious to him he couldn't understand why no-one else had seen it. Then he stepped back, looked through the eyes of a detective. You can't get creative without evidence that this is not a run of the mill case. You can't develop wild theories. Writers can, though, and that's why he could see it.

He spotted a young man sitting on a railing, a woollen hat in his hand, military dog tags round his neck, and mentally wrote a character sketch within the five seconds it took to drive slowly past him. Castle exulted in the ease in which this happened. He would never take his muse for granted again.

* * *

"He's much thinner now. Like sick thin, not work out thin." Castle knew she must have seen the photos too, just not made a connection because she wasn't really looking for one. But he could focus on the small details while she questioned the man, could try out various scenarios until he found one that made the most sense – and the best story. It gave them a lead, someone else to chase.

Castle was having a ball.

* * *

The brother had an alibi. A passport. That was one hell of an alibi. Castle hated being wrong - and then Beckett took pity on him.

"He didn't even check his calendar, but he was ready with an alibi. In my experience, innocent people do not prepare alibis," she explained. Something he'd overlooked. He made a note of it, filed it away as another piece of brilliance for his new character to display.

She wouldn't admit he was right, but he kept pushing away at it.

* * *

He helped her get a warrant and that time his connections didn't bother her. She was driven now, a bloodhound on the scent. It didn't give the best visual image and he knew he'd have to think up a better metaphor later, something more becoming for the lady-cop-hero he was nurturing in his head.

* * *

"Cuff me once, shame on you. Cuff me twice... shame on me." Beckett should have realised that he wouldn't be so easily restrained. He learns from his mistakes. Well, maybe not all his mistakes….

Being held hostage was an incredible experience. He let himself ride the adrenaline rush, taste the fear. On the other hand the safety was on, he wasn't in any real danger, and so could observe the proceedings.

Lady-cop-hero was going to have reddish-brown hair he decided.

* * *

He and Beckett flirted as they said their goodbyes.

"So I can be another one of your conquests?" she'd asked and he'd replied, "Or I could be one of yours."

She walked away and in his mind's eyes lady-cop-hero walked away, hips swinging. He saw her clearly. She'd need a name, and she still needed fleshing out, but she was real to him now, the way Storm had become when he wrote the first Storm novel.

He spent most of the night typing, getting down the ideas, pouring the details he'd gathered onto the pages. This was different though; he had an actual person to gain inspiration from. He could do even better with lady-cop-hero (maybe Nikki?) if he could continue to gain access to the woman who had inspired her.

As soon as it was a reasonable hour he rang the mayor's office. The mayor was reading "Storm Fall" and was looking forward to what he'd write next.

"I have a brilliant new hero," Castle explained, "but I'm going to need to do some research. Bit of a secret, but the next novel is going to star a hard-as-nails but still sexy female detective. Clearly I lack female perspective, but I have an idea about that."

* * *

He went to the precinct and hid until Beckett was called into Montgomery's office and then sat at her desk, watching as Montgomery laid it out. There was no wiggle room here. Beckett accepted her fate; Montgomery nodded towards him.

Beckett stared at him and he smiled. This was going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.


	3. Writer's Block

Writer's Block

**Prompt**:For a castleland challenge; write a third person POV

**Summary**: pre-series; Castle has a secret

* * *

You can't tell anyone. It's shameful. It doesn't happen to you, not to best-selling author Richard Castle.

Writers Block. You can barely _think _the words without wincing.

Killing Storm is a risk. It might be career suicide. But you've grown to hate him almost as much as you loved him, loved writing his exploits, loved embodying him as you described his adventures for an eager audience. It's grown stale, predictable, safe.

You hate those things. You need danger, you need thrills, you need to feel the adrenaline of a deadline and not know what happens next in the novel you promised was practically in the bag.

So you smile like you have a plan. You pretend you know what you're doing. You put on a show, because that's something else you're good at. And it scares you, but that fear is making your heart pound and your blood race, and that's what you've missed this last year or so, doing the same predicable dance over and over.

Something will turn up. It always does. You've always lived your life by that maxim. No reason to stop now.


End file.
